


Querencia

by coconutcluster



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: M/M, i have so many feelings about that video yall, mentions of remus, platonic or romantic prinxiety, set shortly after Dealing With Intrusive Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 12:07:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19376392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coconutcluster/pseuds/coconutcluster
Summary: querencia: (n.) a place where one feels safe.alternatively: roman has a lot of thinking to do and way too much panic to do it.





	Querencia

After compiling a collection of recent events, mulling them over and examining them from different angles - left, right, defendant, prosecutor, ally and devil’s advocate and everything in between and outside - Roman has decided that he just can’t catch a break.

Sure, a lot of his recent…  _ issues  _ were caused by his own inadequacy- or, well, his… his something? His… something. The point is, he’s been feeling not-very-glittery lately due largely to his own faults, leaving him feeling like a part of him is missing, almost like he’s misplaced something in his core and can’t seem to remember what it is or how to get it back. Then the trial with Deceit left him more fatigued than he’d been before (which is saying something)- but he’d been able to overturn his own dissatisfaction with the sentence there, at least. He was able to shrug off the roiling guilt in his stomach by forcing Patton and Thomas’ relieved faces, their  _ proud  _ faces, to the forefront of his mind, by keeping a white-knuckled grip on his fading concept of honor and chivalry until the aching in his fingers and heart went numb with regularity and a dull resignation. His smile was empty after that day in the court, yes, but empty like a doll’s, backed by nothing but pretty enough to fool a quick glance. 

But this? This was just getting ridiculous. 

He  _ knew  _ Thomas hadn’t slept last night - Roman is in charge of dreams more often than not, of  _ course  _ he noticed when he had an actionless night - but it just… hadn’t struck him as anything out of the ordinary at the time. Thomas has had plenty of sleepless nights before. Why should this one be any different? But it was different, and therein lies the problem, because it had to do with Roman, of course, and he couldn’t even help solve it today because he was  _ unconscious on the floor for half an hour _ . 

That train of thought - which he’s ridden approximately thirteen times since sinking out of the Mindscape living room, or fourteen, if this time counts - unfailingly brings back the feeling of Thomas’ carpet on his face, coarse and grainy against his skin as he forced his eyes open; the dull ache in the back of his head; the much-less-dull ache in his shoulder from how he was laying and the jolt of pain through his arm as he shifted on the ground to gather his bearings. He feels the confusion of staring at the carpet fibers all over again, the furious attempts at piecing together bits of conversation he’d picked up while half-conscious that came up empty until he heard that shrill farewell above him, and it all connected in his head. He almost didn’t want to stand up then. A part of him - a nearly overwhelming part of him - wanted to stay face-down on the floor, dragging his fingertips through the field of carpet for a good few hours until everyone else got tired of waiting and sank out without him. Anything to avoid the possibility that Thomas’ gaze would be filled with disgust for what Roman almost was, what he could be. 

Witnessing (or not witnessing, technically?) Remus crash one of their discussions wasn’t exactly high on Roman’s expectations for the day, and he can’t say he’s pleased it happened regardless. He’s usually granted the reprieve of his brother staying mostly with the…  _ others _ , but videos have always been his guaranteed getaway from that strident voice and vulgar commentary and jabbing remarks; he should have known that Deceit’s first arrival signalled something more for all of them. To be fair, though, Roman has always known the Dark Sides would resurface eventually, it’s just that the thought of seeing his brother jeering at Thomas from the space  _ he  _ usually claimed had never seemed genuinely plausible, or at least not realistic to fret over for the time being. (Ironic, he supposed.) 

All this reflection on the day brings a new wave of pain behind his eyes; he shifts on his bed and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, focusing on the myriad of shapes and colors that appear instead of the spinning in his head, the feeling that his brain is pirouetting again and again. Despite what he told Patton, his head still hurt when he stood up. He was reluctant to admit Remus caused any more harm than he had in the chaos of Thomas’ turbulent night - Roman was reluctant to even look the others in the eye after that debacle, for Pete’s sake - and besides, Thomas was in far worse shape than him, so he didn’t want to shift unnecessary pity to himself. Normally, he’d just wave a hand and his injuries would disappear, but… Remus has never made it quite that easy.

As if his wallowing summoned it, footsteps sound down the hall, far too heavy and uproarious to be anyone but his other half. A spike of panic cuts through Roman’s chest - he knows he should confront Remus, figure out exactly what the hell he thought he was doing driving Thomas crazy like that, but he just wants to avoid the entire situation for a little longer, veer around the funhouse mirror until he’s ready to face the reflection with his head held high. Right now, he kind of just wants to burn the whole funhouse down. 

The footsteps grow louder and heavier as they approach, undoubtedly heading toward his room, and Roman knows Remus is deliberately signalling his arrival, no doubt revelling in the idea of giving his brother a panic attack. Or a heart attack. Or an aneurysm. Roman is close to one of them, or an unholy combination of the three, so he supposes Remus would be delighted regardless, but personally, the racing in his chest is far from delightful.

Then his doorknob shakes, and without another second of deliberation, Roman is out of there.

It takes him a few seconds to actually understand where his panic landed him - all he feels at first is a cool breeze that carries the thick scent of rain - but when he sees the towering canopy of leaves above his head and feels the first droplet of rain on his trembling hands, his heart slows its rapid pace enough for him to take a deep, albeit shaky, breath. The Imagination is no fortress, but he’s never seen Remus venture in here (apparently he doesn’t need “a plain old empty canvas to paint on,” which he told Roman right before waving his hand and morphing the room into a scene that Roman instinctively closed his eyes against - needless to say, he dropped the subject); he feels safe for the time being. 

The forest isn’t particularly familiar to him, he realizes as he starts a stroll down the meandering dirt path. The trees are ones he recognizes from a camping trip in Thomas’ late childhood, and the flowers that dot the ground are easily those from his neighbors’ garden, which are details he wouldn’t put past his own rushed thinking, but… he doesn’t usually give himself a path. Hm. Maybe he should start; allowing such a simple thing to guide an equally mindless task is actually quite relaxing. Thirty yards in and he can breathe normally again, eyes tracing the passing scenery with lazy admiration as he listens to the rain pitter-patter on the canopy and a brook babble somewhere off to his left- though, admittedly, his fingers are still curled into tight fists, but that hardly outweighs the serenity of the setting. The crunch of the ground beneath his boots pushes most of the worries from his head with its soft rhythm. He passes a few logs and stumps perfect for sitting, but something in his core pushes him forward - a small part of him is still on guard, waiting to hear mocking laughter behind him, or worse, to feel something collide with the back of his head again - so he just keeps walking. 

It’s another five minutes before he hears the crying. 

At first, he thinks his mind is so deliriously exhausted from the emotional rollercoaster of the day that he’s simply misinterpreting the rain or brook as cries, but when he pauses mid-step to listen, there’s no doubt that it’s soft, hiccupping whimpers, carried by the breeze along with the brook’s gentle comforts. In fact, Roman feels as if they’re coming from the same direction. 

He veers left without another thought, finally straying from the dirt path as he takes high steps over unkempt grass and brushes low-hanging branches out of the way, eyes scanning the gaps between trees for another body or sign of passage before his. His hand curls on instinct, aching to hold his sword as a precaution, but he left it in his room - if Remus is in there, there’s a chance he’s grabbed it, and Roman isn’t taking the risk of accidentally summoning his katana with his brother attached. Besides, whoever is here with him is clearly in no mood to battle, so he supposes he doesn’t need it. 

The brook grows louder much quicker than he anticipated. In just over a minute of walking, he sees the break in the trees ahead, giving way to a small, moss-covered ledge over the babbling stream where the rain falls more freely without the canopy above to block its path. And there, hunched on the brook’s bank, is a figure with shaking shoulders. 

“Virgil?” Roman says without thinking. 

It’s only then that he considers the chance that this is a trick, a ruse by his brother to get him off the path and alone. It’s Virgil’s hoodie that he sees, but he wouldn’t put it past Remus to copy it, detail for detail, just to lull him with a false sense of familiarity and laugh at him when it’s revealed as a fake, or worse, though Roman doesn’t want to consider that realm of possibilities. He takes a step back, heart racing all over again-

“Go away.”

No, definitely Virgil.

“Virgil,” Roman says again, partially to emphasise to himself that this is one of his… well, not his family, but his  _ family _ , as he makes his way to the ledge. “What are you doing out here?”

“I said  _ go away _ , Roman.”

Roman stops in his tracks, mouth snapping shut. Virgil’s voice is uneven and thin, like he can barely work up the energy to force words out, and his shoulders are so hunched that his whole body seems curved inward, arms wrapped tightly around his middle as if he’s been struck there. Roman almost forgot he came this way to follow the sound of crying.

“Are you alright?” he asks, as soft as he can manage while still being audible over the rainfall. Virgil doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t tell him to go away again, so Roman lowers himself to sit beside the anxious side and laces his fingers together in his lap, watching the water below in silence. 

A moment later, Virgil swipes his sleeve across his face - Roman finally sees the streaks of eyeshadow trailing down from his red eyes, and his heart twists - and glances over at him, eyebrows furrowed. “Are you okay?” he asks with a frown. 

“Hm?” That’s not what he expected. (Granted, Virgil was the first one to ask him if he was alright earlier… but Roman’s not the one crying in the middle of a forest.) “Of course I am.”

Virgil blinks at him. “Your hands are shaking.”

Oh. 

He looks down at his lap and, sure enough, the trembling in his wrists has yet to subside with the rest of his panic. “Oh, that’s- it’s just adrenaline,” he says, which is at least partially true. “I’m used to perilous adventures in the Imagination, so...” He resists the urge to clear his throat and instead shrugs, offering a  _ what-can-you-do  _ smile and hoping for the best. 

Virgil stares at him for a few moments with lips pursed, but finally he just tightens his arms around himself and gives a tiny, acerbic laugh. “Sorry, no perilous adventure here.” 

“Don’t worry, it’s nice to have some company instead of a monster chasing me down.” 

It’s supposed to be a lighthearted reassurance, but Virgil’s shadow of a smile disappears completely. He looks back down at the water, lips pressed tightly together like he’s holding something back - words or tears, Roman can’t tell - and he shakes his head, just barely. “You should go,” he whispers, turning away. 

Roman blinks at him. “Virge?” 

There’s no response save for a miniscule intake of breath, like Virgil is swallowing what he wants to say, so Roman reaches out and takes his hand, gently tugging it away from where his fingers dig into his arm. And that seems to be the breaking point. 

A choked cry escapes Virgil’s throat, and his whole body shudders with its force - it’s a sharp, guttural sound, spilling over with fear and regret and grief and a thousand different things that meld together so violently that they can hardly be picked apart as he curls tight on himself, his free hand pressed over his mouth in a futile attempt to stanch the broken sobs that follow. The cloud darken overhead as he cries into his palm, rain plummeting down harder from charcoal skies, but Virgil doesn’t react to it. Roman jumps, just a little; there’s something fundamentally wrong about the scene, something painful in seeing Virgil so wretchedly sad instead of annoyed or fierce or ready to banter with that unimpressed smirk on his face. He doesn’t know what to say, so he just tightens his hold on Virgil’s hand -  _ I’m here _ , he tries his best to say without speaking,  _ I’m right beside you. You’re not alone.  _

“I told Thomas,” Virgil manages at last, his words thick with tears that just keep coming. 

“Told him what?” 

“About me,” he chokes. He takes a shuddering breath, squeezes his eyes shut, and says, “That I was one of  _ them _ .” 

Roman stares at him for a second, waiting for more, before he realizes that Virgil is holding his breath and clearly expecting a reaction. 

“Oh,” he says, very poetically and not at all stupidly. “Did he say something rude? Is that why you’re upset? I’ll yell at him if that’s the case - I’d sword-fight him if I could, but I don’t think my metaphysical-ness would let me. I’m sorry.”

Virgil opens his eyes again to stare at him. He opens his mouth, closes it again, and shrinks away before saying, much more quietly, tiredly, “I was a Dark Side, Roman. That’s what I’m saying.”

“I assumed that’s what you meant, yes.”

They both fall silent for a moment, mutual confusion hanging in the air. With a glance around the forest, as if he expects something to jump out at them, Virgil whispers, “You’re not mad?”

“Why would I be? I thought-” Roman quickly cuts himself off, but Virgil blinks at him, so he finishes sheepishly, “I thought everyone already knew.” 

Virgil stares again, nodding slightly to himself as his blank gaze slides back to the water, hand tightening in Roman’s. “Oh.”

Roman leans forward to catch his eye. “ _ Did  _ Thomas say something?”

“No,” Virgil mumbles, eyes welling up with tears once more, though he doesn’t seem to focus on anything in particular. “He didn’t say a word.”

“Oh.” He thinks, very briefly, that they’ve both said ‘oh’ quite a lot, smiling gently to himself as he makes a note of it. Then he comprehends Virgil’s words and his eyes go wide. “Oh,  _ Virgil _ .” 

He wants to continue, to shed light on the situation and brighten Virgil along with it, but he doesn’t have a light to shine, so he just rubs a thumb over the back of Virgil’s hand and tries to think of something else to say. 

“I knew he’d be upset,” Virgil starts first. There’s something hollow to his voice, as if he’s speaking from a reserve after running the rest of himself dry. “I just… I guess I was just hoping I was wrong, you know? I almost convinced myself he wouldn’t care. But he did,” he murmurs, nodding to himself. “He does. And now…” 

“Nothing changes,” Roman interrupts. Virgil glances at him, exhaustion clear beneath the streaks of eyeshadow on his face as he opens his mouth to respond, but Roman shakes his head so vehemently that he closes it immediately. “Virgil, I can’t speak for Thomas, but you’re not different to me - to  _ us _ , Patton and Logan as well, I mean - because of this.” He reaches out and grabs Virgil’s other hand, too, tugging him gently until they’re face to face so he can meet Virgil’s eyes, which are wide and glimmering with leftover tears. “You can’t control what you were made for. You very well could have been something Thomas wanted to hide when he was younger, but you have  _ always  _ existed to help him, whether he knew it at the time or not, and you’ve done it so well that you’re one of his most valuable Sides now! Even without that,  _ beyond  _ that, beyond Light Sides and Dark Sides and Anxiety and whatever else, you’re Virgil.” He gives a smile, tiny and crooked, and laces his and Virgil’s fingers together. “And you’re doing fantastic at that alone.”

Virgil stares at him open-mouthed… but he stays silent after another minute, sitting stock-still, and Roman is very worried that he’s made it worse- 

Then Virgil lurches forward, pulling his hands from Roman’s to wrap his arms around the prince and burying his face in Roman’s shoulder. Roman stumbles at first, but when Virgil’s hold tightens, a burst of warmth rushes from his chest to his face, and he hurriedly returns the embrace. 

“Thank you,” Virgil mumbles into his shoulder, “you absolute poetic sap.” 

Roman can’t help but laugh. “I suppose that was a little sappy, wasn’t it?” 

“It was great.” 

“Well, I’m glad you thought so. I mean every word.” Virgil doesn’t say anything to that, but Roman takes his tighter hug as a response just the same. 

“You came here to avoid Remus, didn’t you?”

And then it’s his turn to not respond. 

Virgil pulls away, just enough to put his hands on Roman’s shoulders and meet his eyes; there’s still tear tracks on the anxious side’s face, but his gaze is purely concern and skepticism. “Are you okay?” he asks, searching Roman’s face. “After everything from today, I mean.”

“I’m fine,” Roman says instinctually. Virgil just frowns, tilting his head forward and raising an eyebrow. “Well, I- I wasn’t very swell earlier, of course, but…” He fumbles for a minute, struggling to word the lie convincingly enough to end the topic as soon as it began, but between the memories of earlier flooding back once more and Virgil’s careful stare that’s still trained solely on him, he finds all the energy to lie seep out of him. 

“Not really,” he admits, barely above a whisper - Virgil doesn’t push, but he doesn’t have to. “I knew Thomas would see him eventually, but it was so much worse than I imagined,” he winces at the word choice, “and I really just want to pretend it never happened, if that makes any sense.”

“It does,” Virgil says quietly. 

“But now that Remus surfaced to Thomas, I know he’s going to come back. I can’t avoid it forever- I can’t avoid  _ him  _ forever.” His shoulders fall as he squeezes his eyes shut. “I really, really want to, though.”

He feels Virgil’s hands fall from his shoulders as they both go silent; then there’s fingers lacing with his again, secure and grounding, and suddenly he wants to cry because this is the most he’s said out loud since he’s started feeling so tired and  _ wrong  _ all the time and it feels like too much and not nearly enough all at once. 

He notices then that the rain has stopped.

“I don’t know if it means much,” Virgil starts quietly - Roman opens his eyes and finds himself staring at their joined hands, “but I’m here for… whatever. If you want help beating up your brother-” Roman actually laughs at that, and Virgil gives a small grin that quickly fades to something quieter, hard to read. 

“If you just… need to talk,” he finishes, meeting Roman’s eyes with a hopeful shrug. “If you ever need that.”

And Roman can’t say anything to that, can’t form the words to express the surge of gratitude in his heart at hearing those words with such vulnerability and sincerity; he can barely even meet Virgil’s eyes without feeling the pressure of tears threatening to spill out. So he just takes a page from Virgil’s book and wraps the anxious side in a hug, holding his breath until he feels Virgil’s arms around him too. 

“Thank you,” he says into Virgil’s hoodie. 

“Anytime, Princey.” 

And they sit there in silence for a moment, one peaceful, earnest moment, arms around each other and worries present but graciously dulled, until Roman sighs.

“We should probably get back soon,” he says, pulling away from their embrace to glance at the trees behind them. “Patton and Logan’ll be worried if we’re missing too long.” 

Virgil follows his gaze with a frown. “Yeah.” Their eyes meet for a brief moment, flashing with a silent agreement. “But we could chill for a little bit longer first, right?”

Roman’s mouth quirks into a crooked grin. Remus will no doubt be waiting for him when he gets back, eager to pounce, and the sooner Roman accepts that, accepts  _ him _ , the sooner he can learn to work despite (or maybe with) his brother. He and Virgil both have a demon to face, and they’ll have to face them eventually. 

But they can wait. 

“Just a little bit longer.”


End file.
